The Sound of Touch
by elixette
Summary: Sherlock returns, three years after The Fall. John makes sure his return is real, and not a figment of his imagination. Post-Reichenbach reunion fic, with hints of EMPT.


The clock on the wall shows 6. John is about to shut down the computer when the internal phone rings. He picks it up.

"Yes?"

"I have one more for you, is that alright? Last patient for today."

"Sure. Name?"

"Err, hold on. It's a lady. A Sherl-let me check her folder."

John's breath catches in his throat. "Sorry, what?"

"Shirley. Sorry. Her name was Shirley Coomber. Shall I send her in?"

"Oh. Right, of course. Thanks, Rosie."

John lets out a heavy sigh and steadies himself. A random patient name wouldn't remind him of anything at all. He was not thinking about a place, or an event, or a person. He was not thinking about anything.

John had been not-thinking about many things for the past 35 months, 29 days and 18 hours.

Shirley Coomber came in with an acneform rash on her left forearm. A typical antigen-induced rash that would go away within less than a week of topical steroids, John assured her. When she left the consulting room with a diagnosis and prescription, it hadn't been fifteen minutes past the hour.

Everything moved so _slowly_.

"Joining us for drinks tonight, John?" a crisp, female voice calls from the door, waking John from his momentary lull.

He sighs. "Mary, thanks again for asking, and it sounds really inviting, but-"

"No, don't tell me. You have evening classes. Oh wait, was it volunteering at the soup kitchen?"

"Well, not exactly, but-"

"Oh I know-you're meeting with your sister?"

"Actually I was going to say I'm tired."

"Ah. Classic. The old, 'I'd only make it worse for you guys' excuse. Nice one."

"I'm sorry, Mary, I've just had a lot of patients today."

"You're going to have to join us some time. Everyone wants to know about you. They care, John."

"And I'm glad they do, and I appreciate that. But just... not this week. Not yet."

Mary smiles resignedly. "You'll give in one day."

"I hope so, too."

"Well, catch you next Friday."

"You'll never give up, will you?"

"Not a chance."

After tidying his patient notes, John sets about cleaning his consulting room. He disposes of the bedding paper, folds the blinds, arranges the patient seats. The process takes all of 6 minutes, if he takes his time. Then, with careful precision, he disinfects every known surface of the room that was touched that day, using disinfectant and paper towels: the door handles, the bed leather, the seat handles, the table, the computer keyboard, the computer mouse, the window ledge, the sides of the washbasin, the side table. The process takes another 15 minutes. When that's done, John empties the rubbish bin, leaves the rubbish outside his door and replaces the bin liner.

Half of the routine is pointless, John knows. The patients who come to his practice are often well-informed enough not to touch anything, and the ones who do couldn't bring in enough bacteria to hurt a baby. But it's necessary, John tells himself. It's something to add to his schedule. It buys time.

Any time spent out of his flat is time well-spent.

He checks his watch again. 6.24. Good enough.

John says goodbye to Rosie and Mary and the rest of the team, then walks home.

There are three walkable routes from John's medical practice to his flat. He takes the longest one back every day. It, too, takes the most time.

John is looking both ways to cross the street to his flat when he barely notices a tall figure behind a mountain of books crashing into him.

Sherlock makes full use of the three seconds it takes John to roll out of the book heap to examine him.

Hair cut to a neat crop. Clean-shaven. Sleeves rolled out and buttoned, shirt tucked in even though he's finished work and has walked at least 4 miles (judging by the gravel collected at the heel of his boots). Military habits restored. He gives off a pleasant smell-not cologne, probably hand soap or disinfectant. His clothes are clean, a day out of the washer at most; his briefcase, judging by its faded leather, was bought years ago but the marks (or rather, lack of) on them mean that he only carries it by the handle and rarely bumps it onto anything, which means he takes his time going to and from work. Bags the size of fists under his eyes-a given, but something Sherlock isn't accustomed to seeing because 1) He hasn't seen John in nearly 3 years and 2) Were almost non-existent when they lived together- indicate that he hasn't been sleeping well, judging from the time he's arriving at his flat and the lightness of his briefcase, it's not because he's working late but because he has trouble sleeping. Night terrors. He's thin, has a considerable limp (and has been that way for at least half a year now, from the noticeable difference of indents on his left and right boots), although he doesn't need his cane to walk.

He looks exactly how Sherlock had expected him to be. He looks weathered, and tired, but he's learnt to maintain the burden of his limp, which means he has matured considerably with regards to his situation over the past three years. There was an air of resignation, of defeat, of hopelessness in his gait. Understandable.

What Sherlock isn't prepared for, however, is to look John straight in the eye, and see nothing. Absolute emptiness; no emotion whatsoever. A pang of guilt shoots through him like nothing he'd ever felt in three years-not since _then_. Not since _it _happened.

"Dear me, I'm so sorry," Sherlock mumbles in as high-pitched a voice as he can through his beard. He's disguised, of course, in an oversized coat that smells of months of London pollution and waste (borrowed from one of his mates in the homeless network) and has taken advantage of it to slouch as much as possible, making him appear a whole foot shorter than he is. "Books for charity, you know, they never stack well from being so worn out, can hardly see where I'm going half of the time..."

"It's fine," John replies, even though Sherlock can see his fallen briefcase smudged in dirt from the sidewalk, even though John spends half a minute rubbing his bad shoulder from where it was hit. He gets up as soon as he's shrugged the pain away, and despite the wince his face takes on, he helps Sherlock gather the books back into the box. _Sentiment. He never runs out of it_, Sherlock thinks. _The same John I know_.

"Really sir, can I help you with your-" Sherlock starts.

"No, I'm alright, thanks." John says, dusting the dirt off his briefcase without a word of complaint, without a glance back at him. "Be careful now."

Even his voice has gotten deeper, Sherlock notes, though he can't deduce why.

John is still wincing in agony when he enters his one-bedroom flat. _God, what is a man doing selling books at this hour?_

The pain on his shoulder brings back a wave of memories of pain and self-pity, and he closes his eyes. Counts to ten. In French. Immediately realises it's a terrible mistake because Sher-_he_- taught him how to. Opens his eyes. Shakes off the thoughts he's now not-thinking, then realises he's back in his flat, alone, for the next 12 hours. The most dreaded part of his routine. _I'll need a stronger distraction tonight_.

He checks his fridge for alcohol. None. He'd meant to get some on the way back, but forgot. _Maybe I could..._

John fishes out his phone from his pocket, still nursing his bad shoulder with his other hand, and types out a text message.

**Hi Mary. It's John. That offer for drinks still open? I've changed my mind. -JW**

Her response is so instant, it's both embarrassing and gratifying all at once. She's interested in him, John knows, she checks in on him regularly even though his responses are brief, politely non-committal. It's endearing, but John feels she doesn't deserve the amount of emotional baggage he brings with him. Not now, at least.

**Of course. Glad to hear that. We're just on our way to The Old Tavern, 53rd Porter Street. Can't wait! -MM**

John gathers his coat and puts on a muffler (Sherl-_he_- would have wanted him to, but he's not thinking about _that _right now) and opens his front door. What greets him at the door frame is the haggard bookseller, eyes looking directly at him.

"Whoa!" John yells, jumping back in surprise. "What the hell are you-"

In an instant, the man pushes John backward and cups his mouth, gesturing him to be quiet, closes the door with his other hand.

John is about to panic at the thought of being burgled, but a voice instinctively shouts in his mind. _You are bloody not having any of this._ With his right hand, John slams a fist right into the man's stomach, once, twice, thrice, until the man gives off a muffled plea of "Wait, I-"

John turns back and with his other hand, grabs the arm enclosing his mouth over his shoulder, heaving the bookseller (who is surprisingly heavy for his size) forward, crashing onto the carpet.

"Who are you?" John demands, kicking the groaning intruder to roll on his front, locking his arms behind his back in an uncompromising elbow lock that was almost second nature for him to use from his military training. "What do you want?"

"J-John," the man manages in between gasps, "Let go, it's me!"

"What?" John asks, using his free hand to pull the man's hair back and get a better look at his face. It's a wig. It comes off with an audible _scrappp_. The man yells in pain, but John ignores him. He stares at the wig he'd just pulled off, and the hair it's just revealed underneath. It's jet black, unruly. Like the hair of someone he'd known once. Distinctive. The color of soot and olives and charcoal.

"John," the man repeats for the hundredth time, and this time John hears him. He knows that voice. "John, it's me."

John pulls away from the stranger and steps backwards. The breathe catches in his throat- the sound of that familiar voice floods him with memories of a distant past he's fought so long to forget.

The man musters the strength to stand up, and he's just as tall as John remembers. He pulls off his beard and coat.

John's eyes widen at the man in front of him. He tries to speak, or breathe, but apparently the sight of someone he's thought dead for three years has rendered him unable to do either.

"John-" Sherlock says, but John lifts a hand. He stops.

"D-don't.." John breathes, "Don't say my name. Like that."

Sherlock only nods in response. "I'm sorr-"

"I'm insane," John says, closing his eyes, "I've lost it."

"No you haven't," Sherlock says. "It really is me, John, you're not-"

"You're supposed to be dead. I saw you, I-I saw you fall to your death-"

"No, John, you only saw me fall. I wasn't the man lying on the pavement. He wasn't real. I faked it. I faked my own death."

All at once the sequence of events of that day replay themselves in John's mind. He begins to hyperventilate and wonders how the hell his eyes could have left Sherlock long enough for him to have staged it...

"The cyclist," John says, "And the paramedics. Molly. They were-"

"—in on it, yes," Sherlock says, and this time John hears his voice crack.

"Mycroft."

Sherlock swallows before he responds. "Him too."

John falls back on his desk chair, burying his head in his hands. "And you...You're alive."

It's not long before he hears Sherlock shuffle towards him and feels two strong hands brace themselves on his shoulder. He doesn't move, doesn't say a word as Sherlock tells him everything.

John is still at a loss for words, even as Sherlock rummages his cupboard for a towel and spare t-shirt, even as he prepares a sandwich and tea as Sherlock bathes, even as he sends a half-hearted text to Mary saying _Sorry, came down with a bad headache, can't come after all_ (she doesn't reply-he understands), even as Sherlock lies on his bed, still rattling off deductions about Moriarty's legion of followers who'd dedicated their lives to continuing his legacy of crime after his death. John just sits by his desk, and at some point he tunes out the contents of Sherlock's monologue and concentrates, hard, on everything else about the man lying on his bed. The sleek lines that make his face, the fresh abruptness of his body language, the smooth deep tones of his voice. Exactly how he remembers it. Something occurs to him.

"... and did you know there are 3 people watching this flat at all times, although all of them position themselves directly towards your front window instead of your kitchen-Oww! What did you-what are you pulling on my hair for?"

"Sorry. Nothing, I just-nothing. Just wanted to make sure you were real. Again. What were you saying? 3 people watching, was it?"

Sherlock glares suspiciously at him, going off on his theories as to what the hitmen were planning and who they were and why they were there. But John doesn't really care. He nods his head at the right times, responds helpfully when Sherlock pauses for his reactions, but the reality of Sherlock in front of him is what's taking place foremost in his mind for him to think about anything else.

Sherlock's monologue soon comes to an apparent end, and he stares at the ceiling, deep in thought.

John doesn't interrupt. Instead, he moves to the bed and says "Move over."

"Hmm?"

"Move over. I want to sleep."

Sherlock frowns. "Can't you..." he looks around and realizes there is nothing else John has to sleep on.

"Fine."

Tentatively, John lies himself sideways, facing Sherlock. "Sorry about this... this place. I've been on a tight budget."

"I know. Your practice not doing too well either, by the looks of it."

John smiles, not caring to know how Sherlock deduced that. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, taking in what he can of Sherlock-his bath soap, Sherlock's hair, Sherlock's skin.

John slowly moves his hand to find Sherlock's wrist. He feels Sherlock stiffen beside him, but Sherlock doesn't say a word. He wants to tell Sherlock, "I'm glad you're here, and you are you, and you are real, and you are present." But some things don't need to be said, and John knows he'd figure that out for himself in due course.

And of course Sherlock knows. He leaves his wrist where it is because he knows John is feeling for his pulse. To reassure himself that Sherlock, the Sherlock he saw fall from St Barts' rooftop three years ago, is here, alive, breathing, with a pulse, a bloodflow, a heartbeat.

John had pulled his hair. Sherlock had noticed him discreetly keep a tuft of it in his pocket. Because he knew Sherlock would very likely be gone by the morning, and he wanted proof that he hadn't imagined it all.

The thought of that soothed Sherlock, and he moved his free hand to rest on top of John's fingers lying on his wrist. It felt like a natural thing to do.

"It's really me, John." he whispered.

"I know."


End file.
